


It Matters How This Ends

by FestiveFerret



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergent, Feelings, Heartache, M/M, Nighttime Meetings, Not Entirely Devoid of Hope, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Relationship Issues, Reunions, That Fucking Flipphone, no politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 01:26:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12877236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FestiveFerret/pseuds/FestiveFerret
Summary: “You said if I needed you, you’d be there,” Tony finally stuttered out.“I did.” Steve’s eyes softened. “I meant it.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is disgustingly angtsy feelsporn of the most self-indulgent variety. I blame the horrible cold I'm suffering through, Adele, and the IW trailer dropping while I was already emotionally compromised.
> 
> Please be nice, I'm still really really sick and this might be a fever dream.
> 
> (Title from Adele's All I Ask)
> 
> Thanks to ashes0909 for quick beta.

“Tony?” His voice sounded the same. A little rough, from lack of sleep maybe, but unmistakably him.

“How did you know?”

“You’re the only one who has this number.” Sad too, scared. Lost. Tony knew that feeling. “What’s wrong?”

“I need to talk to you.” Tony tried to keep the waver out of his voice. It felt like betting on a risky poker hand - would Steve even want to see him? Was he about to make a fool out of himself?

“Of course.” There was a pause. “Wait, you mean... in person?”

“Yes.”

“But I can’t - yeah okay. Where? When?” There was a rustling on the other end of the line, like Steve was getting out of bed.

“How’s here and now?” Tony tried to make it light, funny, but he failed.

“What?”

He hesitated. Last chance to back out, Stark. “Open your window.”

“What?” Tony waited while the shadow behind the glass moved around, then the tall, hinged window was flung open, and there he was. He had the twin to Tony’s burner phone held against his ear as he gaped up into the sky. He looked rough. And scared and sad and lost. And Steve. Tony’s heart clenched, dropping down into his stomach.

Steve’s mouth slipped open as he stared out at the hovering Iron Man armour. “Holy shit.”

“Knock, knock. Can I come in?”

Steve hesitated - a split second only, but Tony saw it - and it cut a new wound in his chest. Then Steve threw the window wide and stepped back. Tony shot gracefully inside and landed on the floor. Now that he was closer, and his face was still hidden, he took a selfish moment to rake in Steve’s face without giving his own away. He was pinched and unhappy, confused, guarded. He looked older. It had only been a month, but he looked impossibly older. Then, when it seemed unbearably cruel not to, Tony finally popped the faceplate open.

Steve’s face twisted further, and he took half a step back, as if he hadn’t really expected Tony to be inside. “Tony… What are you doing here?”

“I -” Tony searched for something glib, off-hand, to drag the moment out, to let him settle in, remember that they used to be okay like this, alone together. But nothing came. “You said if I needed you, you’d be there,” he finally stuttered out.

“I did.” Steve’s eyes softened. “I meant it.”

Tony swallowed down the feelings and words and tears that were crawling up his throat with roughened, practiced hands. “I need you,” he managed to choke out.

Steve didn’t hesitate this time. He reached out his hand, and the armour melted away, just in time for Steve to catch the back of Tony’s neck, to pull him, tumbling helplessly, into his arms. Tony wrapped both arms around Steve’s waist and pressed his face into his chest. He smelled different, but the heat, the strength, the safety, were the same. It shouldn’t feel the same, but it did. He felt Steve’s face bury in his hair, with a little broken hitch of his breath, and he gave entirely into the moment. Steve took Tony’s entire weight in his arms, clutching at his shoulders and holding him tightly enough that Tony couldn’t take a full breath. He didn’t care.

They hung like that for a long time, and when Tony finally twisted his face against Steve’s chest to pull back, his cheek brushed against something hard. He pushed back farther, Steve’s arms still around him, and reached up with one hand to press Steve’s t-shirt flat against his skin. The outline was clear underneath the fabric. A ring, hanging from Steve’s neck on a chain. Tony knew exactly how that ring felt in his hand, how heavy it was, how the chain dug into his palm when he grabbed it and hung on for dear life.

“I’m not going to stop wearing it,” Steve said, jaw-tight, defiant. As if Tony might tell him he wasn’t allowed to. “If you need - you’re free, if you want to be. I’ll sign - I’ll sign…” His voice broke. “... Papers… but I’m not going to stop wearing it. I’m not going to stop -” Steve cut himself off with a sharp, pained huff of breath.

“I didn’t come here to serve you with divorce papers,” Tony snapped. Then wished he hadn’t, wished he’d said it softly. “I’m not,” he added gently, but it wasn’t quite enough to rewind what he’d already said.

“Okay.” Steve’s arms tugged him close again.

Tony’s hand twitched to come up to his own neck, to grab his own ring, but he knew it wouldn’t be there. It also wasn’t in a snow drift in Siberia. It had been, briefly, but Tony had only made it a few miles before he’d turned the chopper around and picked it up. It hadn’t been around his neck again since; it lived wrapped in one of Steve’s socks at the back of Tony’s t-shirt drawer. Hiding. Waiting. Weighing down his dresser enough that some days he didn’t have the strength to open the drawer, even though he knew it was well hidden enough that he wouldn’t see it.

“What do you need?” Steve asked, barely more than a whisper.

Tony tugged pointlessly at Steve’s shirt and slotted against him in the spot he knew he’d fit perfectly. He didn’t know how to say what he needed. “I need… one night. I need…” He floundered for words. “One night,” he repeated lamely.

“One last night?” Steve asked, his voice breaking again, cracking “last” into a shattered imitation of a word.

Tony shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe. I need a different memory… One I can use to -” He didn’t know if this was the end, but if it was, it mattered how it ended. It mattered that their last moment reflected all the moments before it and not one terrible twisted mistake. “Please.”

Steve rocked back so he could meet Tony’s eyes. His gaze flickered down, so quickly Tony almost missed it, but he saw when Steve realized Tony wasn’t wearing his ring under his shirt, and he tensed. Then he slumped. “Okay,” he said, tiny and broken. “I need that too.” He reeled Tony in again and took a step back so he could sink onto the bed, Tony in his lap, clutched to his chest.

Together, they slowly worked their way back, until Steve was flat on the bed with Tony sprawled out on top of him, feet wound together, holding each other tight. It was right, with wrong wound through every tingling nerve in Tony’s body. But, for one night, he could ignore the wrong and sink, fall, give into the deep deep right.

The air was warm and humid, but Steve had left the window open and a gentle breeze wafted in and brought the hairs up on the back of Tony’s neck. Steve was a furnace under him - he always burned so hot -  but despite the sweat, Tony couldn’t bear to shift further away. It wasn’t the sticky heat he would remember.

Just like the night Steve had asked Tony to marry him. It must have been hot that night too, but Tony didn’t remember the heat, or the hum of the fan in their hotel room, or the way the air had smelled - surely floral with a hint of saltwater. He remembered the way Steve had looked down at him, wry smile, tousled hair where Tony’s fingers had furrowed through it. He remembered the laughter in his voice when he said, “You should marry me.”

Tony had laughed back. “What?”

“You should marry me.” Steve stretched long and lithe on the sheets, and Tony could feel the ripple-roll of muscle under his chest.

Tony flicked his stomach with a finger. “Don’t be silly.”

“I’m not!” He was still laughing though. “You should marry me.”

“I can’t marry you, you nerd. No one outside the team even knows we’re together at all. How would we get married?”

“It could just be at City Hall, or something. Or at the tower with someone we trust.” He wasn’t laughing anymore. Tony’s stomach twisted and turned, shaking the contents inside - which included a little too much wine - into a bubbling mess.

He propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at Steve. He looked _terrified._ But happy - hopeful. “Oh my god, you’re serious.”

Steve tried to shrug, but the pillows were in the way, then tried to bring his hand up to ruffle his hair nervously, but Tony was in the way. He sighed. “I guess. Yeah…” he said, so softly. “I - I don’t want to waste time anymore. I missed too many opportunities. I keep waiting for the right time, but there never will be one. So.. I want to marry you. Because who knows what might happen tomorrow? Tony?” He waited until Tony’s eyes met his. “Marry me?”

“Jesus Christ.” Tony’s heart started pounding in his chest. He had honestly never even - he hadn’t thought that - But. “You really want to marry me?”

“Pretty much more than anything,” Steve admitted, finally wriggling one arm loose to push it through his hair.

“Jesus Christ.”

“I don't think he can save you from this one.” Steve smiled, but Tony could still see the nerves, the tension there. Then it tightened. “You don’t have to say yes, obviously. If you don’t want to, I get it. I mean, I won’t be… hurt. If you say no. Which you can obviously do. I kind of sprung this on you. I sprung it on myself, really. I knew I wanted to ask you, but I didn’t know when and it kind of… fell out. Oh god.” Steve spread his free hand over his face as a vivid pink flushed its way up his chest, around his neck and into his cheeks.

“That was adorable,” Tony breathed.

“For fuck’s sake, Tony. Say yes or no. Put me out of my misery.”

“Of course I’ll marry you. Are you insane? Steve Rogers says he wants to marry you, you snatch that up. You don’t let that one go by. Seriously? Holy shit.” Tony pried Steve’s hand off his face and bent to kiss him.

And he remembered what the kiss had tasted like. Chocolate from their dessert, the wine Steve drank even though he couldn’t feel it. And Steve.

Tony suddenly needed to know what he tasted like now. He crawled up in Steve’s arms until he could press their lips together. Steve tensed for a moment, a raw, broken noise leaking out, then he pressed his hand to the back of Tony’s head, drawing him in, deepening the kiss, melting into it.

He still tasted like Steve.

They broke apart with a distressingly damp gasp on both sides. “Is anyone going to come in here?” Tony asked, breathless, eyes hot.

“No.” Steve’s hips canted up, as if he could read Tony’s mind. He probably could. Either that, or Tony’s hips were pressing down into Steve’s of their own accord. That wasn’t what he had come all the way to Wakanda for. Or maybe it was. Either way, the ball had started rolling downhill and there was no point trying to stop it now.

They each fumbled with their own flies - two years of marriage had done away with any urge to waste time undressing each other - until their cocks were free. Steve took them both in one hand, the other coming back up to the back of Tony’s neck. They didn’t have the patience, the supplies, or the inclination, to do anything more than rock together. The smooth glide of Steve’s hot skin against his, after a month with nothing but his own hand, was pure pleasure, and Tony let himself drift in it, drown in it, until he could forget. Almost.

It took longer than usual, almost frustratingly so, as his pleasure rolled and built, then cracked and started over again from the beginning. He didn’t know if Steve was doing it on purpose, shifting his grip every time he knew Tony was close. He could. He knew Tony’s body that well. Maybe he wanted to stretch this out. Or maybe he’d lost his touch.

Then he gripped, twisted, pulled, and _fuck no_ he hadn’t lost anything. But Tony lost all sense of time, reality, as he tumbled over into pulsing, dizzying relief. Steve pushed up against the crease of Tony’s hip and thrust into his own hand, wet all over with Tony’s come until he was gasping too, coming too. Tony looked down at the mess on Steve’s hand, and he wanted to take those fingers into his mouth, suck off the mixed evidence of their pleasure, but that didn’t feel right. It was too… erotic. There was a promise in that. Or something. Of more.

Steve panted quietly on the bed, then, once he seemed to catch his breath, sat up, shifting Tony gently to the side, and pulled off his shirt. He wiped his hand off on it - and there went Tony’s last chance to taste - then tossed the shirt aside. He slumped back down on the bed, and his eyes found Tony’s. “Is that -?”

“I didn’t even mean to do that,” Tony felt the need to say. To make it clear that it hadn’t been the sex he had missed. Hadn’t been one last joint orgasm he needed.

But Steve opened his arms and let Tony flow into them, pressing tip to toe - one body, twined up like strands of DNA on the bed. “Okay.”

They lay in the silence for a long time. The light in the room dwindled, then disappeared, and Tony stopped trying to strain his eyes to see, letting them fall shut instead.

“Tony. I’m sor-”

“Nope.” Tony cut him off sharply. “Please don’t.”

“I lov-”

“Nuh uh. Not that either.”

Steve huffed, and Tony could feel him frowning against the top of his head.

“I don’t want to talk.” Talking was bad. Talking led to shouting.

Steve’s arm tightened. “Please,” he whispered. “Please let me tell you I love you.”

Tony opened his mouth, then shut it again, turning his cheek against the bare skin of Steve’s chest. An errant hair tickled his lip and he ground his face in, taking the opportunity to breathe in the smell of Steve. Now, under whatever new scent his clothes and skin carried with them, he could smell Steve again. Maybe it was that he’d always been smelling himself on Steve, all this time.

“I love you. I always will,” Steve said, when Tony failed to tell him off again.

He couldn’t say it back - was afraid it would sound like he didn’t mean it, or worse, like he did - but Tony reached up and wrapped his fingers around the ring that rested at Steve’s throat, cupping it in his fingers as he let his body go slack. He’d spent so many nights like this, draped over Steve’s chest, the ring in his hand, his in Steve’s, sharing a connection they kept private during the day with reckless abandon. It was grossly sentimental, but it was theirs.

**

When Tony woke, Steve was still asleep. And that was probably all for the best. He climbed out of bed carefully, quietly. Brushed his finger over Steve’s bare chest once more, pausing to circle the edge of the ring, then pressed a kiss to his forehead.

The armour was still waiting, open, by the window. When Tony climbed in, he left the faceplate up, watching Steve’s chest rise and fall on the bed. He hoped Steve would wake and say goodbye. He hoped he wouldn’t.

He hoped he’d finally figure out how to make a time machine and undo all of this.

And for the first time since Siberia, he realized that if he had a choice, he would bring it back to just before the accords, try to fix it, try to take it in a different direction. Whereas, until now, all he had wanted was to go back to before he and Steve had first fallen into each other. Undo the whole relationship so he wouldn’t have to carry around the broken pieces of something that had made him a better whole. A constant reminder.

And that feeling, it felt a little bit - just a little - like forgiveness looming.

The unsigned divorce papers were still sitting on his desk at home.

The faceplate snapped down over his eyes, and he blasted through the window, not looking back to see if the noise of the repulsors had woken Steve. Not wanting to see his face again.

He had a memory he could use. He could get through this.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had no intention to write any more on this, but in the harsh light of day (and on different cold meds) I made myself sad, so I decided to inject a little hope. If you like wallowing in the pain, this continuation is optional. If you want somewhat of a balm for chapter one, read on!
> 
> Thanks for indulging my Adele and fever induced angst-trip. <3

Tony limped through the doors of the compound. Well, at least this had been one battle that hadn’t ended in his home being destroyed. He stood in the hallway for a moment, debating between his bedroom and his office. Office won. If he tried to sleep now he’d be up for hours wondering what emails he had missed while he was out stopping a violent, black market, alien arms deal. He pushed open the door and -

Steve.

Was sitting in Tony’s office chair.

In a split second, Tony devoured the entire scene. Steve was bent over, his elbows braced against his knees, and in his hand, was his ring, the chain hanging loosely from it. On the desk was the stack of divorce papers Tony’d had drawn up five months ago, right after Siberia. He had kept them sitting there the whole time, staring at him. He didn’t know why. But now they were ruffled and mussed. Steve had been going through them.

Steve looked good. Better than last time Tony had seen him. A little lighter, a little younger again. Still sad. Still lost.

Tony’s brain played a short film clip over and over in his mind. Steve standing, eyes dark, not looking at Tony. Bending over, singing the papers. Dropping his ring on top. Walking out.

Over and over.

Steve stood -

“No -” Tony jerked forward onto his bad ankle and hissed. Steve was there in a sharp second, hands wrapped around Tony’s biceps, keeping him upright.

“What’s wrong?” Steve’s eyes raked over Tony, looking for injury. God, he’d missed that look.

“I - nothing. I hurt my ankle. What are you doing here?” Tony shifted back onto his good ankle, and Steve guided him to the chair, sat him down. Tony very pointedly didn’t look at the papers on the desk, didn’t look at the ring in Steve’s hand.

“Ross’ political ousting,” Steve said. “They’ve turned some things over with him gone. T’Challa’s been in talks. They wanted us stateside again.”

“That was fast.” Ross’ downfall was only three, maybe four days old.

“Something’s coming.”

“I know.” Tony kicked his shoe off and rolled his sock down, twisting his ankle left and right to see how swollen it was. “So, you’re back here to fight.”

“I’m back in _America_ to fight,” Steve clarified. “I’m back _here_ to see you.”

Tony swallowed but said nothing. His eyes finally landed on the ring clutched in Steve’s hand. _Please, fuck, don’t give that back to me,_ he repeated over and over to himself. He wanted to rip open the papers and see if Steve had signed anything, initialed anything.

Steve sunk down, and his hand fell on Tony’s twisted ankle, his fingers wrapping lightly around the throbbing, swollen joint, and Tony couldn’t help but sigh with relief. Steve’s hands never failed to ease pain. Any kind of pain. And maybe this was Steve’s - Steve’s _“One last night”_ because Tony had taken his shot, his night, Steve’s warmth, Steve’s hands. It was only fair, really.

Tony could kiss him. Could push him on the floor and fuck him until he couldn’t think straight and then kick him back to the curb. Steve would probably let him.

He didn’t want that. At all.

Tony finally let his gaze alight on the stack of papers. “So. See anything you like in there?” He was going for off-hand, uncaring, but he knew it came out biting instead. He was doing that thing he did where he was angry instead, because hurt was too scary and scared was too weak.

Steve eyed him carefully. Of course, he could always see through Tony like he was tissue paper. And rip through him just as easily. “It seemed a bit over the top to try and give me half your cars.”

Tony shrugged. “I’m nothing if not over the top. Besides, you should get a fancy severance package, at the very least.” He rolled his ankle again. Fuck, it really hurt now.

Steve pushed to his feet and crossed to the bar in the corner. He rustled around in the fridge. “I wasn’t - I didn’t come here for that. I just saw them on the desk, and I was curious.” He came back with a tea towel wrapped around a few ice cubes, crouched again and pressed it against Tony’s ankle.

Tony looked down at him. “You took your -” he gestured towards his neck “- off.”

Steve opened his hand and looked at the chain resting on his palm, the silver band. “Oh. Yeah. I - I was thinking. I do that when I think.” He coloured a little. Tony always liked how easy it was to make him blush.

Apparently, he couldn’t decide what he wanted with Tony hanging around his neck like a ten-ton weight.

“You don’t have to wear it, Steve. I know you said you would, anyway, but I don’t want you to feel obligated to me out of some bizarre sense of righteous, self-sacrificing responsibility. I’m not going to ask you to sign the papers, because I’m never going to - I don’t need that. No one even knows we - we’re - It’s not like we have to make it a thing. And the only reason we’d actually need to be, legally is if one of us wanted to remarry and I -” Tony cut himself off as a new thought wormed its way to the front of his mind, overshadowing the end of his sentence.

_Please, fuck, don’t tell me you found a nice Wakandan girl to settle down with._

Steve pushed to his feet and crossed his arms. “That’s not - god, Tony. I didn’t come here to divorce you.”

Tony mourned the loss of the ice pack, but it was too weak to ask for it back. “Ah, hmm.” Tony twisted his fingers together in his lap. “Came for your stuff? There’s a lot of it, but I can hire movers. Where are you staying?”

“That’s -” Steve’s whole body shifted with the weight of his sigh. “That’s… what I came here for.”

“Your stuff.” He shouldn’t have been disappointed or surprised, but he was.

“What? No. The - uh. Where am I staying…”

Something clicked. “You came to ask if you could move back _here?”_

“I came to ask -” Steve took a breath “- if there was any chance you were ever going to forgive me enough to let me back into your life. In any way.” Steve’s shoulders heaved again. “That’s what I came to ask.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Steve’s lips twitched. “He couldn’t save you from marrying me and can’t get you out of this one, either.” His face fell dark again. He rubbed a rough, calloused hand over his face. “Sorry. Look, you don’t have to answer that now. I shouldn’t have shown up here unannounced. I - I missed you…” His voice broke. “I know you’re angry. I am too. And there’s so much we need to talk about. But I just… I can’t do this anymore. I thought… but then you came to Wakanda and I thought… I just need to know, Tony. Should I be waiting, hoping, trying? Or should I be mourning?”

Tony dropped his eyes to the carpet, as if that could give him some semblance of privacy with his thoughts. He knew it didn’t matter. He knew Steve could see them all over his face. He pushed to his unsteady feet, and Steve caught him again, a firm hand under his arm. Tony sighed. He wasn’t ready for this, but sometimes things happened when you weren't ready.

He grabbed Steve’s free hand; the chain from his ring was still woven through his fingers. Tony brought Steve’s hand up, catching a glimpse of his wide eyes going wider, and pressed his palm against Tony’s chest, over his heart.  

“Oh, fuck, Tony,” Steve gasped out when his fingers pressed against the fabric of Tony’s thick sweater and closed around the ring that hung underneath, around Tony’s neck again. Steve stumbled forward, the unsteady one now, and tipped his forehead down until it touched Tony’s.

“For better or worse, right?” Tony muttered. He allowed himself a deep breath, letting the smell, the heat, of Steve surround him. Letting the double-time thump of his heart soothe him back to a safer time. “It’s not just magically okay.”

“I know.”

“But I’m not done. I can’t give this up. Give you up.” He pressed his hands flat against Steve’s stomach, and Steve’s hand slipped from Tony’s chest to the back of his neck, the other still supporting his bad side. “Let’s hope. Let’s try.”

 _“Yes._ That’s what I want,” Steve all but whimpered, and Tony gave in, letting their lips brush together. A part of him still recoiled, still raged, a hot, acidic anger that surged in his chest and slammed against his ribs trying to break free and claw at Steve. But he could cage it in, hold it back, and it was getting weaker. Maybe they could kill it together. Maybe he could reach inside Steve and smother whatever swore and screamed inside him.

Maybe not.

But they had to try.


End file.
